“And call off your buddy watching Julia’s place. I made him in less than a second.”
Glaring as he gave an abrupt nod, Delphine drove away.
Chapter Sixteen
Night Devils Clubhouse
“I swear I don’t know where Jif is, Burn.” The prospect hung from chains attached to the ceiling in the basement of the clubhouse, blood dripping from wounds on his back and chest. “Thought he was dead.”
Burn paced forward, getting in the prospect’s face. “You and Jif were tight. Too tight for you not to know what happened to the fucker.” He nodded at Mario, who landed another blow on the already mutilated back.
An agonized shriek of pain pierced the cement block enclosure. No one outside of the basement prison would hear his pleas for mercy. Sucking in a breath, body trembling from the brutal beating, he prayed for blissful unconsciousness to take him.
“Our informant swears he was taken to a hospital near Sasabe. Not long afterward, he disappeared.” Burn’s arms rose in a grand gesture. “Whoosh. As if he’d never been there at all. Where did they take him?”
“Fuck, Burn.” He choked, trying to clear his throat of the rising bile. “I was here at the clubhouse with most of the crew. How the hell would I know if he was taken to a hospital or not?”
“I’m told you know everything about Jif.”
Opening his unswollen eye, he shot a vile look at Mario. “Let me guess. Mario is the one who tagged me as a traitor. You’d do better to look at the men closest to you than a prospect who’s allowed to do little and know nothing.”
When Mario lifted the whip again, Burn waved him off. The kid wasn’t saying anything Burn hadn’t already suspected. Mario was many things, including a stone-cold killer who enjoyed inflicting pain and flexing his muscles. Inside, the man was a coward from the scar on his face to the black heart in his chest.
“Get out, Mario.”
“Give me more time and I’ll get him to confess, Prez.”
Burn crossed his arms, his features set in stone. “Get out and shut the door behind you. I’ll let you know if your services are needed again.”
Tossing the whip aside, Mario spat at the prospect before skulking past Burn, slamming the door behind him.
Grabbing a bucket of water, Burn splashed part of it over the kid’s face and chest before setting it aside to pull a flask from a pocket. Holding it out, he allowed the prospect a few swallows before capping it.
“Tell me about Mario.”
Choking, he shook the water off his face. “Mario?”
“Smart prospects see a lot, hear things. You’ve been around almost a year. What’s your opinion of Mario?”
Taking several breaths, he glanced away from Burn before meeting his hard gaze. “He’s a motherfucking liar, Prez. Hates you and Jif enough to talk about him being a better president.”
“You heard him say this?”
“Mario can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s drunk. Says a lot of shit that should never be spoken about outside of your office.”
Walking to the corner, Burn tripped the simple mechanism keeping the prospect hanging from the ceiling. Letting him drop to the floor, he released the ties on his wrists. Pointing to the bucket, he walked to the door.
“Get yourself some water.”
The kid lifted his head, every move triggering waves of pain. “You’re letting me out of here?”
“Not yet. I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll talk again.”
Eternal Brethren Clubhouse
Wrath stared out the back window of his office to the warehouse in the back, waiting for the arranged phone call from Admiral Grayson. It was early morning, the time both men preferred to discuss business.
The club had recently remodeled the indoor shooting range, cavernous garage, and arsenal after an explosion ripped a section of the building apart.
Impatient, he opened a drawer, withdrawing a file. The label read Jif. He expected the call from Grayson to include an update on the injured DEA agent’s condition.
While undercover with the Night Devils, he’d provided invaluable information about upcoming runs, changes in routes, disruptions within the inner sanctum of the club. He’d been the one to relay the deep dislike and arguments between Burn and his VP, Mario. As the sergeant-at-arms, Jif had held a significant position in the Devils, gaining Burn’s trust and unwavering resentment from Mario.
At the ring of his secure phone, he confirmed the door to the office was closed before hitting the button.
“McCord?”
Wrath straightened at the admiral’s voice. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll get right to business. First, Agent Burke is recovering from his wounds.”
“Am I to assume you’re referring to Jif, Admiral?”
“Affirmative. His name is Graeme Burke. He’ll never be able to return to undercover work with the Devils. My contact at the DEA is considering a transfer to a branch in Texas. Desk duty. As you’d expect, Burke has requested to go back undercover.”
“Not possible out here, Admiral.”
“Did you know he’s an ex-SEAL?”
Wrath had heard the rumor. Until now, there’d been no confirmation. “I suspected.”
“He was injured on the way back from a training mission about seven years ago. The helo went down, killing two, plus the pilot and co-pilot. The rest were injured enough to require they transfer to training posts or accept a medical discharge. Burke took the medical and went to work for the DEA. He’s considered an exemplary agent.”
“He’d be miserable behind a desk.”
“Agreed.”
Wrath ignored the rap on his door. “What are you suggesting?”
“He’s well-trained with deep knowledge of gangs and terrorist activities. His Naval career was as stellar as his position within the DEA.”
“Yes, sir. He is an excellent agent.” Wrath waited.
“What are your thoughts on him joining Stoney?”
If he hadn’t already been wondering the same, Wrath might’ve been surprised. “He’s with the DEA. How would he make the jump?”
“Resign his position with the DEA and re-up in the Navy. He’d keep his previous service time and add his years with the DEA. Plus, Burke is from New Orleans. Attended Tulane. NROTC.”
“Have you spoken with Stoney?”
“Not yet. I want your input on Burke.”
“He was able to move quickly up the ranks in the Devils. Burn trusted him or he wouldn’t have chosen him as his sergeant-at-arms. You’ve got his SEAL record. But it’s not up to me, Admiral. The decision is yours and Stoney’s.”
“Good enough.”
Wrath prepared for Grayson to end the call.
“We may have another problem, Commander.”
He would’ve chuckled, but held it in. “That’s why we’re here, Admiral.”
“There’s a second DEA agent inside the Devils.”
The knowledge surprised him. “And your DEA contact just let you know?”
“Affirmative. About a year ago, Jif brought him in as a prospect. The agent missed his daily check-in to headquarters last night. I’m sending you his information and image.”
“What does this mean for us?”
“We’ve been asked to do recon on the clubhouse. No engagement. Observe and report any sighting of Agent Jason Ortiz.”
“Roger, Admiral. I’ll work with Ghost and Rock to plan a mission for late today.”
“Send me the details.”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“How’s Cara?”
As they always did, Wrath’s features softened at the mention of his wife. “A couple months to go. Still working and doing well. Thanks for asking, sir.”
“Keep me posted, Commander.” Grayson ended the call as Wrath responded.
“Yes, sir…”
Rubbing his stubbled jaw, Wrath studied the image of Ortiz on his computer
screen. It showed a smiling, clean-shaven young man. A common practice, taking a photograph after receiving your first formal assignment.
“Where are you, Ortiz?”
Shoving from the desk, he walked to the front, scanning the large room before hearing what sounded like a fight behind the building.
Rushing outside, he stopped at the sight before him. Tracker and Fuse traded punches, both already showing the effects of solid blows to the face.
“Ghost, Rock, break this up.”
Neither man had any intention of giving up the fight. It took Ghost and Wrangler to secure Tracker while Rock and Moses dragged Fuse away.
“What the fuck, Tracker?” Fuse swiped blood from his nose.
“Six years, you sonofabitch!”
Confusion clouded Fuse’s features.
Rage ruled his voice. “Six fuckin’ years ago you refused to pass Julia’s information to me. Who the fuck do you think you are, taking that choice from me?”
Paling, Fuse shot a look at Wrath.
“It wasn’t his call, Tracker. The decision was mine.”
The look in Tracker’s eyes said it all. The realization his commanding officer had betrayed him. Shirking out of Ghost and Wrangler’s restraining grips, he took several steps toward Wrath.
“Why?” Then he shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t care what your bullshit reason is. I’m out of here.” Not waiting for a reply, he stalked to his truck.
“Stop where you are, Lieutenant.”
Wrath’s command had no effect. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he fired up the truck, sending dirt and gravel spraying on his way to the gate. When they didn’t open at his approach, he leaned out the open window.
“Open the damn gates.”
The two men positioned as guards shot a look behind him to where Wrath and several others stood.
“Let him go.”
Tracker didn’t acknowledge Wrath’s order. Waiting just long enough for his truck to fit through the opening, he roared away, not sparing a glance behind him.
Sitting at the head of the conference table, Wrath shoved all thoughts of his decision six years ago from his mind. All his attention had to be focused on the current mission.
The three men he planned to send on the recon mission stared at him. No one asked about what they’d heard outside, although he could see the questions in their gazes. His two closest friends and youngest brother seldom judged his decisions. This time, he could see the doubt in their expressions.
“I’ll set things right with Tracker.”
They didn’t respond, spearing him with the uncertainty in their eyes.
Ghost rested his arms on the table. “What do you have for us, Prez?”
“Grayson ordered a recon mission.”
The three cast curious glances at each other. “Takes all of us to do a little recon?” Rock asked.
“There’s another undercover DEA agent within the Devils.”
“Why the hell didn’t we already know this?” Wrangler asked.
“Because Grayson’s contact just notified him. They haven’t heard from the agent in over thirty hours. He missed his normal check-in last night.” Wrath saw the interest and determination on their faces. “Finish whatever you’re doing. Go time is 1600 hours. And gentlemen, the reason for this mission doesn’t leave this room.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jason Ortiz alternated between running a few steps, then dropping to all fours, crawling for several yards, choking up blood, before pushing to his feet. Bent over at the waist, he repeated the sequence, the same as he’d done since escaping the basement prison late the previous night.
The open wounds on his back stretched with each movement. He didn’t know how deep the injuries were, probably not very, but the pain was like nothing he’d ever felt.
Jason needed medical treatment before the inflamed cuts festered. He’d made it a couple miles from the clubhouse, fortunate the structure had been built within the circle of manzanita, Palo Verde, and ironwood trees. The landscape continued for several hundred yards in all directions, dense patches of native trees concealing the building while hiding his escape route.
For the first hour, he’d used a short limb covered in leaves to obscure his prints in the dirt.
A couple hours after sunup, he’d heard the roar of motorcycles. They’d discovered him missing. He’d flattened himself on the dirt, wincing in pain as tiny cactus plants pierced his skin. His shirt had been shredded, soaked in blood from Mario’s whip and knife. Useless for protecting his ravaged back.
If there’d been more passable trails leaving the clubhouse, they might’ve found him. Jason had made certain to stick to the center of the broad expanse between the dirt roads, areas too rough for bikes and cars. He had no explanation for why Burn hadn’t used a truck or SUV to search for him.
Again, he heard the roar of an engine. This one louder, more robust than the motorcycles. Risking discovery, Jason rose enough to see over the shrubs. Burn’s black truck bounced up and down as it traversed the uneven landscape. It headed directly toward him.
Frantically searching for a hiding spot, his tired legs struggled to cover the ground toward a copse of low manzanita and lush ironwood. Reaching the potential hiding place, he dropped to his stomach, clawing his way into the center of the mass. Dead center stood a tall saguaro cactus. It would be almost impossible to change positions without impaling himself.
Jason waited as the truck closed the distance. Heart pounding against his ribs, he forced himself to stay still, refusing to yield to the pain of the rocks digging into the skin of his chest and stomach.
Sweat trickled down his face, the salty liquid burning his eyes. Ignoring the sting, Jason listened to the sound of the approaching truck. He guessed the distance fifty yards…thirty…twenty…ten. Then they were upon him. The vehicle slowed, Mario shouting above the rumbling engine.
There wasn’t a chance the sadistic VP would miss him. Steeling himself, Jason held his breath. Another shout from Mario preceded him gunning the engine. A moment later, the truck moved on, Jason’s relief palpable.
Waiting to see if Mario returned, he didn’t move. Not even an inch.
It took Tracker the distance between the clubhouse and his home for his temper to slow. The realization Wrath had been the one to order his contact information be kept from Julia cut deep. He respected and trusted his commander. At least he had.
Tossing his clothes aside, he took a quick shower, needing to calm his anger before calling Julia. Under normal conditions, he’d keep Wrath’s part in their years of separation to himself. For many reasons, he couldn’t do that this time. She deserved to know why Fuse had rebuffed her request.
Towel wrapped around his hips, he shaved, trimming his mustache and goatee enough to appear presentable to her family. Running a comb through his hair, he stared at his phone, realizing he hadn’t checked messages since leaving Julia’s that morning.
Picking up the phone, Tracker winced. Two messages from Julia.
After three rings, she answered. “My father and Diego are here.”
“I’m on my way.”
He heard her exhale. “Thank you.”
“Jules?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember. I love you.”
“Right back at you, Nate.”
In less than five minutes, he headed to her place. Tracker hadn’t liked the strained, almost desperate quality in her voice. Did she fear her father? Anyone would if they knew about all the crimes he’d committed.
Increasing his speed, he took a couple shortcuts, desperate to reach Julia before she said something which caused suspicion. Between heated rounds of lovemaking the night before, they’d talked about their roles. She’d agreed to say nothing indicating any knowledge of the cartel. He hoped she’d keep her promise.
Parking in front of her house, he couldn’t miss the rented Lamborghini in her drive. After a quick scan to confirm the lack of DEA surveillance, he headed
for the door. Not bothering to knock, he strode inside, stopping at the sound of his name.
“It’s my life, Father. Including Nate in it isn’t your decision.”
“After what he did to you? You forget, querida, we were the ones to watch the pain he caused, the way you threw yourself into work. It took years for you to consider dating anyone else.”
“Those days are in the past, Father. I’m sorry if you and Diego don’t approve.”
Stepping into view, Tracker looked at the three, his temper rising. Julia’s features revealed the amount of stress her family had already caused. Opening his arms, she walked into them.
“I’m glad you were able to come.” She reached up, kissing his chin. “You remember my father and brother.”
Dropping his arms from around her, Tracker held out his hand to each. Armando accepted, while Diego took a few seconds longer than usual to grasp it. He didn’t miss the way her oldest brother studied him, no doubt thinking about their brief encounter in Nogales. An encounter Tracker had no intention of acknowledging.
“It’s good to see you both again.”
“What are your intentions, Nathan?”
Tracker had always appreciated Armando’s ability to cut right to the essentials. In this case, his daughter.
“Father!”
Tracker settled an arm over her shoulders. “It’s all right, Jules.” Kissing her temple, he turned toward Armando. “I love her, sir.”
“You said the same before.”
“My feelings for her have never changed. Because of an unfortunate set of circumstances, we’ve been apart much too long due to misunderstandings, interference from people we trusted, and my transfer to another team.”
“Tell me, Juliana. How did you and Nathan find each other again?”
“We saw each other at a ranch south of here, Father. At least once a month, the owners invite foster children from the valley to take riding and grooming lessons. Nate volunteers to instruct. I went with the woman who notified me of the opening at the clinic. Her husband also volunteers.” Glancing up, she smiled at Nate. “All the people who volunteer grew up on ranches.”
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